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Last time, we introduced our suspicion that the baseball in use from 1974 through 1976 was less lively than normal, and thus depressed power hitting by a factor of about 20%. We presented our methodology of adjusting the numbers to simulate a more typical hitting environment, and took a look at the resulting stat lines (presented in blue) of many of the more prominent batters. This time we’ll focus on the game’s most elite stars.

A Trio of Top-Notch Center Fielders

While not quite as good, Monday was a remarkably similar player to Jim Edmonds: a lefty batter and thrower, a big, athletic, graceful center fielder, a patient power hitter who was prone to striking out, and prone to getting hurt.

There’s a tendency among some modern fans to assume that all leadoff hitters of the 1960s and 1970s were slap-hitting speedsters with dubious OBP skills. It is true that there were several prominent such guys, in particular Luis Aparicio, Maury Wills, and Bert Campaneris. But it wasn’t at all true that such was the only manner of leadoff hitter around: Monday usually led off for the Cubs, and other power-hitting, high-strikeout leadoff men of the period included Bobby Bonds, Tommie Agee, and Tommy Harper.

In 1973 it was only a question of how deeply within the Hall of Fame’s inner circle Cedeño would land, yet by 1979 he was playing first base and hitting rather like a middle infielder. His rapid injury-plagued deterioration has always raised the question in my mind of Cedeño’s true age, but even if he actually was two or three or even five years older than purported, that was still quite a descent.

Tremendous as the hitting and base running of the (however) young Cedeño were, the most impressive thing about him was his center field defense: he covered the vast green of the Astrodome as though it were the size of a pool table, and his arm was a shoulder-fired missile launcher.

He was a bit fragile, but beyond that Otis was, as old Royals’ fan Bill James loved to observe, a plus player in every department.

So just how good would Joe Foy have had to turn out to be in order to make the Mets’ Otis-for-Foy trade come out even? Let’s not even consider Bob Johnson, the other guy the Mets included in the deal, whom the Royals were able to turn around and convert into Freddie Patek. Let’s ignore that part and just consider how well Foy would have had to play to be the equal of Otis.

Foy was just 26 when the Mets acquired him, and certainly they anticipated he would plug their third base hole for years to come. Otis, playing center field for the Royals, would earn between 17 and 29 Win Shares every season from 1970 through 1979, an average of 23.7 per year. How typical is it for a third baseman to have a run like that?

Graig Nettles was the best third baseman over the complete decade of the 1970s. Over the seasons 1970 through ’79—the best 10-year run of Nettles’ career—he never had a year with as many as 29 Win Shares, and earned an average of 22.2. Ron Cey, another terrific third baseman of the period, also never had a 29-Win Share season, and earned an average of 22.1 per year over his best 10 seasons.

Ken Boyer, the outstanding all-around third baseman for the Cardinals of the ’50s and ’60s, a seven-time All-Star and an MVP winner, earned 23.1 in his best 10 years. Bob Elliott, another power-hitting MVP winner, comes in at 23.0. Pie Traynor, the line-drive-hitting defensive wizard of the 1920s, puts up a 22.5. Jimmy Collins, the Hall of Famer generally regarded as the first great modern third baseman, clocks in at 23.0.

There have been, of course, a few third basemen who’ve put up better decade-long Win Share totals than Otis did as a center fielder. But the point is you have to get into the truly all-time elite to find them: Eddie Mathews (32.6), Ron Santo (27.5), Mike Schmidt (33.0), George Brett (27.0), and Wade Boggs (28.6). (Brooks Robinson comes in only slightly ahead of Otis, at 23.9.) That’s a telling measure of how remarkably well Otis did, and what kind of a tall order Foy faced to match it.

A Quartet of Capital Catchers

Munson’s place in the popular consciousness is intriguing. When he was playing, Munson was a huge star, capturing an MVP (which in retrospect seems of questionable worthiness) and being universally respected (though not much liked) as a fearless, fiercely tough winner. His tragic mid-season death, which eliminated a decline-phase perspective from his career, might have ensured that Munson would become a larger-than-life figure in memory, deified by the Big Apple media into an unforgettable All-Time Great.

But somehow that’s never really happened. Munson today seems somewhat forgotten: dismissed by experts as having been overrated, and having been eclipsed in the Yankee Pantheon by Donnie Baseball in the 1980s, and the array of celebrated Bronx stars of the 1990s and 2000s.

Munson wasn’t as great a player as his reputation in the 1970s had it, but neither should he be overlooked. He was a fine-hitting catcher, solid defensively and amazingly durable, and his on-field presence truly did transcend his numerical contribution. He was a genuinely memorable player.

Simba, on the other hand, seems somehow better regarded today than he generally was when he played. At the time, he was considered a pretty poor defensive catcher, and his rather goofy, fun-loving personality seemed to define his reputation more than his amazing bat. But from today’s vantage point we see more clearly just what a remarkable hitter Simmons was.

Most everyone in the mid-1970s did appreciate how extraordinary it was to have such a group of terrific catchers in their primes, and Bench was unquestionably (and properly) regarded as the greatest among them. The rather rapid physical breakdown he would encounter in his 30s, and the unsuccessful conversion to third base (which we discussed here), were as yet unknown, and Bench through this period was held in near-awe.

Bench was the best-throwing catcher I have yet seen; the strength and accuracy of his arm was simply astounding. As a hitter, he could be pitched to: he attempted to pull everything, and thus saw a steady diet of low-and-away off-speed stuff that often resulted in topped grounders. But Bench was just so strong. His brawny shoulders, thick arms, and immense hands allowed him to wield a long heavy bat as though it were a hollow plastic Wiffle Ball model, and without over-swinging Bench calmly produced rockets that, if they didn’t clear the left field wall, seemed ready to pierce it.

Some Old Lions

Okay, Allen wasn’t really very old at this point, but he was certainly in the process of physically falling apart, and he retired at least once in here. When healthy, and when willing, Allen swung one of the most potent bats that anyone has ever swung.

Like Allen, Yastrzemski was a gifted natural athlete, probably capable of excelling at the professional level in any number of sports. It’s easy to picture Allen as a light-heavyweight boxer, or as a free safety for the Eagles, and it’s easy to picture Yaz on the pro tennis tour, or as a defenseman for the Bruins.

But that’s where the similarities end. Allen was garrulous, and craved attention of any kind, while Yaz was kind of cranky, and never seemed comfortable in the spotlight. Allen’s attention to fielding was spotty and careless, while Yaz was intensely engaged in the defensive challenge, seeming to relish fielding more than hitting. And Allen’s approach to training involved mostly cigarettes and beer, while Yaz was a conditioning fanatic, devoting himself to weightlifting long before the practice was widely accepted in baseball.

The latter distinction between the two players plays out vividly in the shape their respective careers took in their 30s. While Allen became overweight and chronically hurt, Yaz was trim and durable, seeming to show no signs of age at all, remaining a consistent and productive regular right through the decade.

The most “Similar Batter” to Stargell on baseball-reference.com is McCovey, and their similarities extend well beyond their left-handed slugging exploits. Both were extraordinarily warm personalities, genuinely beloved by their teammates. The towering leadership stature of “Pops” Stargell amid the “We Are Famalee” Pirates of 1979 gained him a co-MVP award at the age of 39 despite not playing enough to qualify for the league batting crowns (he would have tied for fifth in slugging).

This exercise adds 15 home runs to Stargell’s career total, giving him 490.

“Stretch” McCovey became so revered in the Giants’ organization that since his retirement, the players on the club vote annually for the Willie Mac Award, presented to the one among them who most lives up to McCovey’s model of selflessness and dedication.

McCovey’s comeback season of 1977, at 39 years old and with both knees beyond shot, was quite a story. Though he appeared to be completely washed up, McCovey approached the Giants and convinced them to give him a chance in spring training on a minor league contract; the ball club consented as a courtesy, probably expecting it would amount to little more than a PR stunt. McCovey proceeded not only to make the team, but to win the starting first base job, and finish 20th in the league’s MVP vote; his 86 RBIs that season were the most he’d produced since 1970.

McCovey’s arthritic knees were so bad that since about 1990, he has been completely unable to walk. Yet, in a wheelchair he remains an ever-popular fixture at the Giants’ downtown ballpark, and the finger of the San Francisco Bay into which splash the most prodigious home run blasts by left-handed sluggers will forever be known as McCovey Cove.

McCovey here would have achieved a lifetime total of 533 home runs, surpassing Ted Willams and falling just short of Jimmie Foxx.

In Aaron’s two victory-lap seasons with the Brewers, he didn’t have much left. But in his run toward Babe Ruth’s record, with the Braves at ages 35 through 40, Bad Henry was a relentless long ball machine.

This exercise has him winding up with 764 … would that be within Barry’s reach?

Like Lynn, Rice’s raw stats were significantly boosted by the Fenway Park effect, but like Lynn, raw stats that good are still hugely impressive. From the vantage point of 1979, both appeared to be on the inside track to Cooperstown, but for both, that would be the high point.

Speaking of tremendous young players who took a wrong turn on the way to Cooperstown … Parker would soon hang a u-turn straight into a ditch, from which it would take him several years to emerge.

Following this year’s Home Run Contest telecast the evening before the All-Star Game, did you leave the TV on, and watch the celebrity/retired-All-Star softball game? Against my better judgment, I did, and it was pretty much the predictable waste of time. However, one moment redeemed it: since Parker and Gary Carter were both taking part in the softball game, they intercut a replay of the throw Parker made during the 1979 All-Star Game, which Carter received to put the tag on Brian Downing. Parker’s clothesline on-the-fly strike from medium-deep right field was, to this day, the single greatest throw I have ever witnessed.

Foster’s career took an odd shape: he struggled for quite a while before getting it going, and he faded quickly after reaching his peak. But what a peak it was. The impossibly slim-waisted Foster generated spectacular power for a few years.

Winfield, an amazingly talented all-around athlete, was also somewhat slow to develop after skipping over the minor leagues altogether. He never would scale quite the offensive heights of any of these others, but once he reached his peak Winfield just sort of held it forever, far outlasting all the rest of these guys, and breezing into the Hall of Fame.

Three Emerging High-Average Specialists

In addition to their remarkable base hit production, a characteristic these three shared was baserunning ferocity: you did not want to be a middle infielder trying to turn a double play in the face of one of these charging rhinos.

Looking at Madlock’s major league stats, including breaking in with that .351 September call-up at the age of 22, you’d think he was one of those guys who were hitting line drives right out of the womb. But the fact is Madlock hadn’t hit especially well in the minors before that year: he hit .269 in Class A in 1970, .234 in Double-A in 1971, and then .292 in 192 at-bats in combined Double-A and Triple-A in ’72. Then suddenly in 1973, with Spokane in the Pacific Coast League, things clicked: Madlock hit .338 (second in the league) with 22 homers (fifth) in 491 at-bats before the late-season promotion to the majors. He would basically stay hot for the next decade or so.

McRae’s late-20s transformation from a pull-oriented fly ball hitter (and a utility man) into an all-fields line drive hitter (and a star), under the tutelage of batting guru Charley Lau, was simply astonishing. Few such frog-into-a-prince stories unfold at the major league level.

Lau’s other celebrated pupil in Kansas City was so immensely talented that he’d have likely been a star no matter who was his batting coach. But the particular contact-oriented, gap-to-gap approach Lau instilled in Brett produced a wonderfully fun hitter to watch. Those of us who were too young to have witnessed Stan Musial got to see the next-best thing here.

Rose and Carew had a lot in common. Both were young second basemen who blew through the minor leagues in three seasons, leapfrogging Triple-A altogether. Both then burst onto the major league scene with runaway Rookie of the Year performances. Both were adequate defensively at second, though not outstanding, but both were moved off the position after a few years more as an injury-prevention measure than as a function of fielding inadequacy: both were considered just too valuable at the plate to be left exposed to rolling blocks in the field.

Both Rose and Carew were essentially singles hitters, but both in mid-career developed the capacity to deliver the more-than-occasional home run, and both lost that power as they aged. Both were rather impatient hitters when young, but both gradually developed an outstanding capacity to draw walks.

Yet for all their similarities, as personalities Rose and Carew could hardly have been more different: Rose was ebullient and pugnacious, while Carew was laconic and imperturbable. And in the batter’s box they were near-opposites as well: while both hit from a pronounced crouch, Rose, beefily muscular, intensely squeezed his bat and was a tightly coiled spring, pure energy lusting for release, while Carew, angular and long-limbed, seemed relaxed at the plate to the point of drowsiness, resembling nothing so much as a housecat casually perched on a windowsill, languidly contemplating the afternoon scene.

A Great Slugger

Even though he was an MVP winner and a 14-time All-Star, to a great extent Jackson was perceived at the time, and has been remembered since, as a personality more than as a player. That’s a measure of just how forceful (one might even say obnoxious) Jackson’s personality was and is, because this guy was one tremendous player.

Jackson hit 563 homers despite never playing in a great home run park, and despite spending the vast bulk of his long career in one of modern history’s least home run-conducive eras. He hit 563 homers despite having only two 40-homer seasons, one coming when he was just 23 and the other when he was 34. With a home run-centric skill profile, Jackson was particularly hurt by having the Dead Ball ’70s period hit him right in the heart of his career, at ages 28 through 30. This exercise demonstrates that it cost Jackson a third 40-tater season, and this version of Mr. October winds up with a career total of 583.

A Greater Slugger

One home run among the many I saw Schmidt hit remains particularly vivid in memory. It was at Candlestick Park, sometime in the early 1980s. Schmidt didn’t even appear to swing hard, he seemed to be trying to poke one up the middle, and with a piercing crack a high liner was far over the fence in half a heartbeat—to right-center field. Along with being impressed, one felt something approaching despair: this just wasn’t fair. This guy belonged in some higher classification than the mere major leagues.

Schmidt’s and Jackson’s batting styles were strikingly different. Jackson joyously screwed himself into the ground trying to hit every pitch 700 feet, while Schmidt somehow never seemed quite at ease at the plate, obviously thinking hard, focusing on keeping himself balanced and not over-swinging. Yet they generated similar results in that neither was much of a pull hitter, both regularly launching their towering cannonballs to dead center.

As the most prolific home run slugger of the mid-1970s, Schmidt lost the most value of any player to the 1974-76 Dead Ball. His actual career total of 548 homers is boosted to 572 here, as he goes from three 40-dinger seasons to six.

The Greatest Player in Baseball

In the mid-1970s, Morgan was just about as spectacular a baseball player as it’s possible to imagine anyone ever being: here was a perennial Gold Glove-winning middle infielder, stealing 60 bases a year at a success rate of well over 80%, drawing far over 100 walks a year while rarely striking out, and, for good measure, hitting well over .300 with terrific power. Some exceptional players don’t have a weakness; this was a guy who didn’t have anything but elite-caliber strengths.

He was just a little fellow, of course, 5-foot-7 on his tippy toes and 165 pounds with his pockets full of rocks. Yet Morgan didn’t tend to handle the bat in a typical little guy’s fashion. His natural stroke was a huge, full, sweeping, dead-pull uppercut; Morgan swinging was the spitting image of a Roger Maris or a Ted Williams, only pint-sized. For much of his time with the Astros, the organization attempted to get Morgan to modify his cut, to slap the ball the other way—the way little guys are supposed to. The problem was that Morgan wasn’t especially good at that; despite his incredible pitch recognition talent, such an approach from Morgan was prone to produce little more than harmless hoppers to shortstop. So Little Joe kept reverting to his natural, big swing, which would irritate Houston management into insisting that he’d never fulfill his potential doing that, and the frustrating cycle would start all over again.

In Cincinnati, manager Sparky Anderson was wise enough to just write Morgan’s name on the lineup card and leave it at that. Letting it rip, Morgan generated a relentless stream of wicked liners and towering flies, almost never hitting the ball to left field: a pattern of production typically seen in lefty sluggers at least half a foot taller and 50 pounds heavier. Morgan’s peak was so Himalayan that within a few years, as age finally caught up with him and he was dogged by chronic minor injuries, he lost his capacity to hit for average, and lost most of his speed as well—and yet remained an exceptionally good all-around second baseman until he was 40.

Methodology

We take the seasons immediately surrounding 1974-76 (we use 1973 and 1977, ’78, and ’79; we don’t use 1971-72 because the lack of the Designated Hitter in the American League in those seasons makes the comparison overly problematic), and compute the aggregate rates of offensive production: runs, hits, doubles, triples, homers, walks, and strikeouts. Then the stats of each batter for the seasons of 1974, 1975, and 1976 (presented in blue) are adjusted such that the aggregate averages of those seasons is equal to the aggregate total of 1973-77-78-79.

An impact of a greater rate of hits is an increase in at-bats, of course. I use a simple method to increase at-bats: every batter’s at-bats are increased by his number of increased hits. Outs are constant, of course, and I assume as well a constant rate of double plays and baserunning outs—probably not exactly proper assumptions, but close enough for our purposes.